


The Spanking Ghosts

by sanguinity



Category: Professor Challenger - Arthur Conan Doyle, The Land of Mist - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Established Relationship, Ghost Sex, M/M, Referenced Homophobic Violence, Spiritualism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 18:52:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12563932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguinity/pseuds/sanguinity
Summary: "By Jove, that's soldiers for you!" Roxton laughed. "Even in death, the moment a man has an empty barracks to himself, what!"John Roxton and Ned Malone go ghost-chasing again, but this time it is they, not Reverend Mason, who enable the ghosts' release.





	The Spanking Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sans_patronymic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sans_patronymic/gifts), [NairobiWonders](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NairobiWonders/gifts).



> For sans_patronymic, who prompted ghost spanking, and NairobiWonders, who seconded it. 
> 
> (Y'all probably thought you were prompting Holmes and Watson! But ghosts get you Roxton and Malone, there's nothing I can do, thems the rules I just made up. I presume Roxton and Malone are unfamiliar to most, so the first few paragraphs include an overview of their characters and adventures.)
> 
> Inspired by this oddity: ["Imprint of a Hand," _St. Louis Post-Dispatch,_ Missouri, August 2, 1896](http://yesterdays-print.com/post/166628547724/st-louis-post-dispatch-missouri-august-2-1896).
> 
> Thanks to Phoenixfalls for beta and advice.

Lord John Roxton, the famed soldier and sportsman, renowned for his adventures in South America and the Alps, entered the abandoned barracks, flanked closely by his companion, Edward Malone, the _Daily Gazette's_ hot-blooded young reporter. As unlike as the two men were in station and appearance, each was a match for the other in courage and fighting spirit, as had been tested many times over in the previous decade. The two had withstood the tender attentions of pterodactyls and ape-men, and they had even, during that period when every person on Earth had been brought to the edge of death, faced the end of the world together. But nothing brings two men into close soul-to-soul intimacy like a psychic quest, and so it should come as no surprise these two friends have also shared adventures together among the Spiritualists, communing with neolithic spirits and challenging dark souls who have lingered to harrow the living.

It was that last adventure which had indirectly brought them to these abandoned barracks: their shared quest to release a dark soul in Dorsetshire, Malone's newspaper account of the same, and the subsequent summons for assistance from Roxton's old regiment. 

"Our unfortunates died in here, padre," Roxton said to their companion, one Reverend Charles Mason, their usual guide in Spiritualist matters. Rev. Mason had accompanied them on that dreadful day in Dorsetshire, when a murderous spirit had assaulted all three men, flinging them bodily from the house. Even Roxton's and Malone's exceptional courage had broken on that occasion; Reverend Mason alone had mustered the strength to re-enter the building and treat with that tortured shell of a creature, eventually easing its passage to a better plane. But if Lord Roxton's ignominious rout in Dorsetshire weighed on him now as he moved through the desolate barracks, it was hardly recognisable in his care-free manner. "To hear the lads tell it," Roxton continued, "one can hardly bear to enter the place ever since."

"To think, ghosts of English soldiers, here on home soil!" Malone exclaimed, shaking his head in wonder. "One might think all the ghosts were in France."

Grief briefly passed over Roxton's aquiline features; he had fought in Africa, but the carnage in the French fields touched everyone who called England home. "And so one might, young fellah. But this happened well after the War ended, once the lads were safe on home turf again. Or what ought to have been safe on home turf, what!"

"How did the men die?" Rev. Mason asked, but before Roxton could answer, Mason swayed on his feet. It was not faintness of heart that had given the cleric a turn; he had mediumistic tendencies, and thus felt the presence of spirits more keenly than his less sensitive companions.

Roxton put a steadying hand on his elbow. "You all right there, padre? I'll go bail there really are ghosts here, if the place takes you like that."

"You doubt your fellows?" Mason asked, once he had gathered himself again.

Roxton gave a low, considering whistle. "I don't much like to say, seeing as how I was only in Africa myself. But sometimes the lads see things what aren't there, what, and not all of them ghosts."

"Fair enough," Malone replied. "France will do that to a man. But it's not just the reverend who's come over strange; I feel them, too."

Roxton looked sharply at Malone, for he alone of the three felt nothing of the lost spirits. "Feel them how?"

"A queer, lonely kind of feeling. How did you say they died?"

"That's the doosed peculiar thing of it, none of the lads will say. It happened while I was in the Alps, and I can't get one word out of anyone about it. Only that they died in here and haven't given the regiment any peace since."

"What did the inquest— _Hssht!"_ Malone stopped, listening intently. "Do you hear that?"

The three men had penetrated to the shadowed sleeping quarters. The bunks were empty, as were the corners of the room, and yet they could hear the rustling of fabric. That alone might have been mice or rats, but there was also the distinct, quick, rhythmic _fwap_ of skin against skin.

Malone slid a glance at Roxton, amused at the incongruity of it. "Is that really…?"

"They're _spirits,"_ Mason exclaimed, as if it passed credulity that souls who could not move beyond this sphere should still engage in such fleshly behaviour.

"By Jove, that's soldiers for you!" Roxton laughed. "Even in death, the moment a man has an empty barracks to himself, what!"

"But they weren't by themselves, were they?" Malone asked, his keen reporter's mind already sifting through the details of the case, catching at the ones on which the story might later turn. "Didn't you say there were two?"

"Why so I did," Roxton said, but just then Malone staggered and cried out. 

"I felt it! Felt _them!_ One of them touched me!" He turned his back to show the others, and there, gleaming whitely on his shoulder, was a handprint, wet and shiny. The scent that rose up from it was all too familiar to both men.

Roxton laughed harder. "Well, that's the queerest ectoplasm I ever saw!"

"Deplorable," Mason opined from beside them, and both friends turned in astonishment that the gentle reverend, usually so compassionate in the face of mortal weaknesses, should judge so harshly now.

The spirits evidently felt the same, for there was an abrupt rushing and roaring, an impression of half-formed wings and baleful eyes, before absolute darkness closed around all three men. Roxton shouted, he and Malone instinctively reaching for the other. But Mason screamed in outright horror, and before any of the three knew what had happened, the reverend was blown bodily out of the room before the force of the spirits' anger.

"Padre!" Roxton shouted, and he and Malone, both quite unharmed, rushed after him.

They found Mason tumbled on the lawn, bruised and shaken from the experience. "No, I'm all right," he told them, brushing aside their hands. He fumbled a cross from his pocket with trembling hands. "Give me a moment to catch my breath, and then I'm going back in. Those poor souls need my help."

Roxton put a restraining hand on the clergyman's shoulder. "I'll never fault your courage, padre, but I don't think that's wise."

"No, we'll go back in," Malone agreed, glancing at his friend to confirm it. "The spirits never touched us." Roxton snorted, and Malone smiled. "Well, not beyond the obvious," he amended, the hand print still distinct on his shoulder.

"The young fellah's right," Roxton added. "Whatever those two poor souls are upset about, it's personal to you. Best if the lad and I go first and make parley, and keep you to the rear as reserves."

"But you're not men of the cloth," Mason protested.

Malone stiffened, ready to take umbrage. "And yet one man may be as interested in laying a troubled soul to rest as another."

"Clergyman or layman, I don't see it making much difference," Roxton said. "You yourself said no formal religious proceedings had any effect. It's kindness and reason that does the trick, what?"

"Kindness and _compassion,"_ Malone added meaningfully. His look was so stern that the cleric dropped his eyes.

"Which I showed a distinct want of just now," Mason admitted. "Very well. You shall try, and I shall sit here and reflect on my sins and try to be a better man for it, for when I am eventually needed."

Roxton gruffly shook Mason's shoulder. "Don't take it too rough. After all, it's when you're a man instead of a clergyman that I like you best." With a look to Malone, Roxton stood.

Malone rose with him. "We'll send for you when we're ready," he reassured the reverend.

"That, or we'll be pitched on our ears beside you inside of two winks, what!" But Roxton strode for the entrance to the empty barracks, Malone at his shoulder.

Inside the doors, however, they paused to take the measure of the unsettled spirits. 

"I can still feel them," Malone said. "Like a great, expectant wall. Wary and angry and scared, all at once. But not only scared." Very deliberately, he took Roxton's hand. He laced their fingers together, and squeezed once. "Longing, too."

"So you're thinking the same thing about their plight that I am, Ned, my lad?"

"I am."

Roxton sighed. "It's not cowardice, that feeling. I'll admit I've felt it a time or two myself. The sensation that the entire world is arrayed against you… It's a hard thing to take."

"I've felt it, too," Malone said quietly, and Roxton squeezed his hand.

"We all have. If there's anything that unites us, it's that." Turning to the waiting darkness, Roxton called out, "Hulloa! We're all friends here!"

But the darkness seemed unpersuaded of their friendship, and only swirled about them in angry suspicion. A sense of agitation rose, pressing ever tighter around Roxton and Malone, building pitilessly toward some unseen peak.

"Is there enough of them left to understand?" Malone asked, turning to his companion. "They might need more evidence than just words."

"Well, damn," Roxton swore. "I think you're right, but I'm not keen on displaying ourselves in front of other eyes."

"John," Ned said, and the quiet conviction in his words carried them through the growing maelstrom. "If anyone has a right to know…"

"Then it's these poor souls. For their sake, then." And putting his free hand to Ned's cheek, Lord John Roxton leaned down to kiss Edward Malone.

It wasn't the most passionate of kisses, not with the uneasy press of the storm swirling about them, but it was heartfelt. Ned returned the kiss in kind, his free hand coming up to curl against John's shoulder. Presently, they felt the air of the room became somewhat quieter. They ended the kiss and exchanged a melancholy smile, confirmed in their suspicions as to why these souls were weighed too heavily to leave.

"I wish I'd been wrong," Ned said, and John nodded grimly.

"There now, that's our _bona fides,"_ John called out to the dark, but without stepping back or looking away from Ned. He took one more kiss from his lover before turning to face the expectant dark. "Not a soul here who can judge you, nor who would dream of doing it, either."

"We're here to listen. Talk. To help if we can."

There was a pause while the offer and the intent behind it was considered. 

Then the darkness gathered itself, and spoke.

 

What was said in that room was private between those four, and not to be repeated here. But when Malone and Roxton again emerged from the barracks, their postures were thoughtful, their steps somewhat slower than when they first entered. 

Reverend Mason looked up from his seat on the grass, his relief palpable that his friends had not been injured by the rogue spirits inside. "Is it my turn then, gentlemen?" he asked, standing to meet them.

The two men exchanged a look, but it was Roxton who spoke for them both.

"Here's the thing, padre, and I'll tell it to you straight. Those two souls in there loved each other. Now, I'm not here to say whether it was right or wrong, but they were murdered for it all the same. They need more help than Ned and I can give, but if you can't meet them with the pity and compassion they deserve… Well, it seems best that we leave it quits for the night, and find someone who can."

"I was afraid that might be the case," Mason said, and his eyes dropped to Roxton's and Malone's hands, where they were still joined together. Not until that instant had either man realised that they had walked out of the building so. "It seems, my friends, that try as I might, I can't separate the sin from the sinner."

To their credit, neither man tried to drop the other's hand. After baring their souls to the two dead lovers, to deny each other now seemed the worst kind of betrayal. And yet the cleric's words could not be borne so easily as that, either.

Malone bristled, his Irish spirit rising up hot in him. "Why now, if you think you're—"

"Steady on," Roxton said, squeezing Malone's hand. "I'm right there with you, my lad, but I don't think that's what the good padre is trying to say." His words were quiet, but he looked sharp at the reverend, no more prepared to take a slight peaceably than Malone was.

"Thank you," Mason said. "I can't seem to help but put a foot wrong, and you show more generosity of spirit than I did. But the truth of it is, while you were giving our lost souls the pity they deserve, I've been sitting out here thinking on my failings as a minister. And I'm left in the peculiar position of thinking that when I esteem the sinners so," and here Mason looked meaningfully at both Roxton and Malone, "then I can't find it much in me to decry the sin, either."

Malone, finding himself suddenly without an opponent, felt a wave of confusion. He looked to Roxton, who seemed no less rocked. 

"By Jove," Roxton said, shaking his head. "I've seen many queer things on this Earth, but never a thing as pretty as that."

"Why, that's very fine, Reverend," Malone said, recovering himself more quickly than Roxton. He shook Mason's hand, as easy to forgive as to argue. "I'll go in then and tell them you'll be along. And that you've had a happy change of heart, too." 

Malone went back inside, but the sportsman and cleric lingered. 

"I'm that glad, padre, and that's the truth of it," Roxton said, and he gripped Mason's shoulder. "There's no one I'd trust more to talk to them than you, and it like to broke my heart to think we'd have to get in a stranger to do it."

"It's my duty and honour to serve," Mason said, but he gripped Roxton's hand where it lay on his shoulder. He nodded at the door that was just shutting behind the reporter. "You're not worried about young Malone's safety with them?" 

"Not a bit of it. Malone can handle most anything, and I'll go bail that there's no real harm in those two, not even in their current state. And if they've been occupying themselves with making sure the regiment never sleeps easy again, then that's not a quarter of what they deserve. In fact, I'm thinking that if our two lost souls are ever to find rest, Malone and I might have to see to the regiment ourselves."

 _"We'll_ see to it," Mason promised. "All three of us. Vengeance isn't my domain, but helping a soul rest easy is."

"Why, I'm looking forward to it! The flail of the Lord, a man of the cloth, and young Malone with his pen and fists too! If we three can't set it right between us, then I don't much like to think of anyone's chances, what!"

"No better work to be found in the world," said Reverend Mason, and they turned to join Malone, to help ease two tormented souls to their rest.


End file.
